Fate/Defiance
Chapter 34 - Conceptual Chains
"Hmm…" Icarus muttered with a hand on his chin as he eyed the pillar at the west end of his workshop/house basement.
This pillar could be considered the foundation of his workshop, reworked from the wall punched by Heracles earlier.
"…Now I just need an artist." Icarus spoke, eyes lighting up as he remembered a certain son of Apollo locked away from the world.
He just had to come up with a way to fool him… or maybe he could even benefit from a worthwhile exchange.
…
Asclepius was exactly where Icarus expected him to be—wedged in a corner of his room, muttering over a tablet covered in diagrams of livers.
"Hey, Asclepius."
"No."
The physician didn't look up.
Icarus coughed, resolutely ignoring his words.
"Look, I don't need much. Just three small figures carved into a pillar. Barely anything."
"…Define 'small.'"
"…."
Icarus raised both hands. "Okay, okay, hear me out—I also need your help understanding elemental humors."
That made the healer stop.
"…Explain."
Icarus sat down across from him, leaning in conspiratorially.
"You know how the world is composed of the four basic elements, right? Fire, water, earth, air?"
"…Yes."
"Look, I need sacrifices that correspond to those elements, and what could be better than the four humors tied to them?"
"Blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile."
"That's right—and think of how useful firsthand knowledge of their interactions in complex rituals would be?"
Asclepius finally looked mildly interested. "…Fine."
"Yes! Thank you—I knew I could count on you!" Icarus cheered in response before pulling a deadpan Asclepius along with him.
…
…
"The measurements are right… but is this the right way to mirror it?" Icarus pondered as he checked his work.
He had Asclepius use his medical precision to carve out three figures from the pillar—specifically three women.
…Which was quite difficult, and ended with Asclepius instead directing a helpful Heracles to slowly chisel the pillar with his might repeatedly concentrated over small areas.
The three women were the Hesperides, the daughters of Atlas who guarded the Golden Apples of Hera, and a major component in Heracles' future Eleventh Labour.
Icarus had them chiseled into the pillar in a strange concave manner, embedding the three goddesses into the stone from three sides.
Around the statue were several enchanted mirrors, forming a special effect when paired with the convex carvings.
With that, he had sent Asclepius and Heracles back, promising to eventually share some of his results.
This process took days, with Icarus himself putting months of effort into the rest of the basement afterwards, having spent late nights refining and creating the rituals and materials for the rest of the workshop.
Then, from there, he finally set up one large final ritual encompassing the entire basement.
The walls were no longer the plain white bricks he'd spent days crafting—they were painted in circular blocks of color and ink, seven layers spiraling upward, with each layer holding a large circle.
Icarus had incorporated ideas and items from his father, with crystals capable of bearing concentrated Ether integrated into the large circles, which rotated in epicycle movements with the aid of unseen automatons.
The floor, meanwhile, was simpler yet no less heavy in feeling.
The directional cardinal points were painted in thick strokes of red and black, their lines sharp with triple-checked precision.
North. South. East. West.
The floor was made to mimic a compass, with each corner also containing ritual sacrifices corresponding to the four elements.
Fire. Water. Earth. Air.
Gallbladder. Lungs. Spleen. Liver.
Icarus stepped toward the western pillar and pressed his palm to it. The stone was cool, but under the surface—he could see it.
Something pulsed. A faint thrum. Like a heartbeat or a memory. But his eyes recognized it—Heracles.
Heracles' punch had struck deeper than the surface. Not physically—though the pillar bore microscopic fractures from where Heracles had nearly damaged it—but conceptually.
A mark of divine authority.
A mark belonging to the son of Zeus.
Then, it was Icarus' turn.
He took his place at the northernmost point of the workshop—exhaled slowly—and lifted the brush dipped in a thick mixture of mana-infused resin.
His hand trembled slightly. This was the most complex thing he had ever attempted—not physically, but conceptually.
"Gaia below…" he murmured, touching the floor with the brush. Power thrummed faintly beneath his feet. "Ouranos above…"
He turned, eyes drifting upward along the spiraling painted layers, the way each circle would rotate along its own path when activated—the seven heavens.
"And the Aether beyond."
His voice was quiet. Not reverent—focused.
The ritual circle on the floor flared softly, the cardinal points glowing with pale light.
The first circle on the wall turned.
Slowly. Grindingly.
—But it turned.
Icarus stepped back toward the center of the room, inhaled sharply, and raised both hands toward the spiraling walls.
"—Let the Spheres be filled. By the Turning of the Seven Celestials, hear me!"
"O Selene of the First Sphere—cast your silver breath."
Moon.
The sacrifices at the corners of the room erupted, the four elements appearing in chaotic fashion—slowly finding their natural order.
As he continued, he watched moats of water slowly line the edges of the wall, creating a stroke of liquid surrounding the ground.
"O Hermes of the Second—give motion to the wandering star."
Mercury.
"O Aphrodite of the Third—grant harmony to the circle of life."
Venus.
"O Apollo of the Fourth—ignite the Sun's path with fire."
Sun.
"O Ares of the Fifth—let strife temper the firmament."
Mars.
"O Zeus of the Sixth—by lightning's authority, command the sky."
Jupiter.
"O Cronus of the Seventh—bind the outermost ring in stillness."
Saturn.
The classical celestial bodies that embodied the heavens—the seven layers that made up the sky.
Each layer's activation increased the weight in the air, and Icarus' eyes could see the purity in the air concentrating higher at each layer.
The circles shuddered as the crystal cores embedded within them sparked—crackling lines of concentrated Ether dancing along their edges.
The epicycles began to turn more smoothly, guided by the invisible mechanisms hidden inside the walls—the constructs Icarus had engineered to mimic the dance of the cosmos.
He then lowered himself to one knee, pressing his palm against the compass-painted floor.
"By your authorities, fill these spheres."
"By your dominions, awaken this sky."
"Let the Seven enact the motion of Heaven—and let that motion descend into this world."
The water trenches quivered, then rose—with thin, rippling sheets of reflected light hovering above their pits. Within each reflection, the rotating spheres appeared magnified, warped, and illuminated with divine light.
Then, softly—yet unmistakably—the seven celestial circles answered. Each circle filled with divine resonance, adopting the hue of its patron god.
A pale silver glow from the lowest, a quick mercury shimmer from the second, a blooming rose-gold from the third, a blinding white blaze from the center sun-sphere, a red spark from the fifth, a deep electric storm from the sixth, and finally, at the outermost ring—a slow, inevitable pulse.
The basement ceiling groaned with conceptual pressure, with the heavy Ether permeating the room too dense for his workshop.
…But luckily he had a way to circumvent it.
Icarus rose, turned toward the western pillar, and inhaled through gritted teeth as the seven spheres above him shuddered under their own divine weight.
The Ether pressing down from the ceiling felt like a physical mass, but the pillar—the carved forms of the three Hesperides—was waiting.
—Waiting for its purpose.
He began the invocation.
"The Three Hesperides, rise to bear the world."
The etched figures quivered.
"You who sprang from Atlas' blood, guardians of the Western Border, keepers of the Golden Tree—hear my call."
The water trenches rippled violently, reflections distorting the Hesperides' forms into towering silhouettes.
"By the mark of strength upon this pillar—the blow of Heracles, son of Zeus, Prince of the Thunderer—receive the command of Olympus."
A faint thunderclap echoed from the stone. Heracles' imprint flared gold. The carved stone groaned as though something tremendous pressed down upon it.
"As Zeus once cast Atlas low, now let his lineage descend upon you. By conflict reenacted, inherit the burden of the Titan."
The reaction was immediate.
The oppressive Ether that had weighed down the entire basement shifted—buckling, compressing, and funneling straight onto the pillar.
The Hesperides' stone forms strained, but they did not crack. Instead, they seemed to grow heavier—rooted and anchored by myth.
Icarus continued, now with visible strain.
"Thrice are you numbered—and thrice is the world divided."
The circles on the walls dimmed momentarily, then flared in matched resonance.
"Aigle—bear the Earth."
The lowest sphere glowed a deep, fertile green reflected in the water.
"Erytheia—bear the Sky."
The middle heavens vibrated, the air crackling with blue-white arcs.
"Hesperia—bear the Heavens themselves."
The highest sphere pulsed with pale gold, as if touched by distant constellations.
"By the law of triplicity—as three Fates spin destiny, as three brothers rule the cosmos, as three realms divide existence—so too shall you become whole."
A pulse of conceptual force shuddered through the room. The mirrors surrounding the statue seemed to warp, causing the reflections within to overlap.
The pillar straightened, almost imperceptibly, as though accepting an invisible, crushing weight.
"Completion of the Triad—Atlas is reborn!" Icarus roared at the top of his lungs, and the basement echoed back in response.
Not physically—but metaphysically.
A rush of celestial pressure surged downward, only to be caught, diverted, and anchored into the pillar.
The Hesperides' carved forms trembled as though exhaling under the weight now settling upon them—reflections of the divine layers they were being bound to represent.
Icarus grit his teeth.
"—Rise," he commanded the heavens.
The circles obeyed.
All seven spheres turned at once, synchronized in impossible precision by the constructs hidden behind the walls and the divine power now bleeding into the ritual. The room shook with a cosmic hum—like the world itself had taken a slow, awakening breath.
But the seven celestial spheres then stabilized, their rotations smooth and steady, supported by the tri-layered Atlas substitute.
The oppressive weight vanished.
Icarus drew a breath—and felt the entire workshop breathe with him.
The workshop was no longer a basement.
It was a sky.
—and Atlas had been reborn in stone to hold its weight.
The Myth of Atlas was that of a Titan punished to hold up the sky on his back for eternity, to keep its weight from crushing existence.
But—Icarus wasn't just in Greek Mythology! He was in the Nasuverse—Type-Moon's version of Greek Mythology, and what did Atlas remind him of…
Rhongomyniad!
The Lance That Shines to the End of the World!
King Arthur's Holy Spear, wasn't really a spear—no, it was a tower, a pillar of light that fastened the two sides of the world.
It was what anchored the last texture of mankind to the Earth.
A texture—a layer of the fabric of reality covering the surface of the planet—a conceptual dimension superimposed on the world.
Icarus boldly speculated that Atlas was his own Rhongomyniad—the anchor that held the texture of Ancient Greece to reality.
Without the knowledge to create a Reality Marble, the highest class of Bounded Field, where the boundary line becomes the space itself—Icarus decided to be even more outrageous.
For he had inherited the notes and lessons of his father—the future creator of the Labyrinth!
With this foundation of knowledge, he conspired to turn his workshop into a pseudo-Greek Texture—a fake miniature world with all its concepts! If he couldn't reach the heavens—he would bring the heavens to him!
Mimicking the real Greek Texture, he had split his workshop into three conceptual layers: the World, the Sky, and the Heavens.
His room currently embodied the Sky, with his floor the World and the ceiling the Heavens. The Ether in the room was already like pure concentrate—and he was only at the first inner sphere of the Sky, representing the Moon!
He could only imagine what he could create in such a workshop!
…
…
..
.
.
…But Icarus wasn't done!
He had to tie this workshop to himself—he had to make it his and only his.
So, his next steps began.
Standing at the northernmost point, he looked toward the pillar supporting his workshop—its very foundation.
The pillar carved with the Hesperides.
He had used them to create a fake Atlas—using the damage previously done by Heracles to make a sort of binding mythical reenactment.
Icarus used the wall punched and uprooted by Heracles and bound it to the Hesperides. In this way he could equate Heracles to his father Zeus, and force the Hesperides to conceptually represent their father—Atlas!
Then, using the damage by Heracles, he could bind Zeus' punishment—to hold up the sky—to the pillar of the Hesperides, and then, with the ritual to create a pseudo-texture, force them to become Atlas.
But that wasn't all.
Icarus stood at the north of his workshop, a spot that represented another Titan—one heavily linked to Atlas.
His brother—Koios.
The north belonged to Koios, Titan of the Celestial Axis—the unmoving Pole around which the heavens turned! He was an obscure Titan who took basically no active part in Greek Mythology—he was only relevant through his descendants.
But he was still the axis to Atlas' weight. If Atlas bore the sky, then Koios was the one who aligned it.
"And now," Icarus whispered, "it's my turn."
He lifted his hand, fingers trembling, and spoke toward the unseen heavens.
"Asteria Astrophoros—Fallen Star, Wandering Flame of Night, you who fled Zeus' grasp and became Delos, the island of refuge—hear me."
Asteria, the daughter of Koios and the mother of the Goddess of Magic, Hecate. A cold draft seemed to pass through the room as he invoked her name, despite there being no wind.
"You who leapt from the heavens. You who burned from the sky. You who became an isle sanctified by oath."
Asteria is notable for her pursuit by the amorous god Zeus, who desired her. In order to escape him and his advances, she transformed herself into a bird and then a wandering island.
A faint reflection appeared in the water edging the workshop, showing a quivering outline—a woman's silhouette surrounded by drifting starlight.
Not present. Not summoned. Just remembered onto this form.
A conceptual revenant.
Icarus pressed a palm over his heart.
—Then smirked.
"I share your fate."
Icarus spoke his truth, his fate, his destiny. He tied himself to the Goddess Asteria, whose domain was… Divination—by telling her the future.
His future.
"I too fell from the heavens. I too burned across the sky. I too became an island—Icaria, the land that bears my name."
In his original mythology, after burning his wax wings and falling into the sea… Daedalus, Icarus' father, consumed by grief… named the island nearest after him.
Icaria.
Furthermore, Asteria's name was derived from the word ἀστήρ (aster), meaning "star"—which was derived from a root meaning "to burn."
In every way that mattered, Asteria and Icarus were the same!
The power in the room shifted. Two myths—two falls—two transformations—aligned.
Perfectly.
He raised his head.
Icarus slammed his hand into the northern sigil.
"Asteria, bind to me by destiny shared—and through you, I bind to Koios."
A conceptual bridge, from a child to their parent.
Like Heracles to Zeus, and the Hesperides to Atlas.
He then thrust his arm forward, fingers spread toward the west—toward the carved pillar.
"—And now," he whispered, "we connect the poles."
The air tightened, vibrating with a pitch too high for mortal senses.
"Koios Polos—Titan of the North Star, Axis of the Celestial Sphere, Father of Asteria—Doublet of Atlas!"
Icarus tied Koios conceptually to himself and then, to Atlas, by their linked nature as a doublet.
This, alongside the mirrors surrounding the Hesperides' pillar, with their convex nature of carving, formed an optical illusion that made their forms always face in Icarus' direction—making him their axis.
Literally, and metaphysically.
…And just like how the world always followed the real North Star—it would also revolve around him.
…
…
..
.
.
…But he still wasn't done.
Linking himself to his workshop like this couldn't just bind its control to him—it could also allow him to force concepts onto himself.
He wasn't sure if it would work outside his workshop or not, but it could significantly boost him while within it… and, was he really Icarus if he didn't squeeze out every last drop of opportunity?
Now, who could he bind a concept from to empower himself?
…Well, Koios was a name that held a special meaning—"to query" or, more importantly… "intelligence."
You know who else had a name synonymous with intelligence, known throughout Greece?
He pressed his palm to his chest, smirk widening.
"Ἴκαρος—!"
Icarus.
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Author's Notes
I cooked. Also, yay! Didn't take 3 years for an update.
Also, Icarus doesn't have knowledge of Lostbelt 5.
Hope you liked it!
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